


Mutation

by NorthernLights37



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Left it on WAY too long, But kinda fun, But not a shit ton, But you don't have to know anything about X-men to know what's going on, F/M, Fluff, Like if you threw Game of Thrones Characters into an X-Men Blender, Modern day Westeros, Probably some angst here and there, Romance, Smut, because that's not how I roll, i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23433778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: Captive since their earliest memories, Jon and Daenerys have been tested, and controlled, made into weapons.But freedom brings it's own challenges, and so do the ghosts of their pasts.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 148
Kudos: 501





	1. Jailbreak

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something fun. Like, not deep, I'm taking lots of liberties with both GOT and X-Men characters in general. Some will be clearly modeled after certain mutants, some may be a blend of a few, but hopefully you'll have fun along the way :) I'm working on some other things, as well, but then sometimes this is how it goes: You get an idea and it won't leave you alone so you just have to purge it from your mind so you can get back to your other shit.
> 
> Comment if you feel like it. Kudo if you feel like it. I'm not telling anyone how to live :)

  
For as long as he can remember, there has been this room.

It is his, and he sleeps here, he eats here, there is a small privy in which other business is attended to, as well.

But this room is his home.

Jon knows that this room is just one room, that other rooms exist. These rooms form a cluster of rooms, and sometimes he can catch snippets of conversation, that provide him with other details. The cluster of rooms form a complex, and the complex is in a place called Lannisport. Lannisport is a city, in a place called the Westerlands.

And the Westerlands are a part of Westeros.

That’s as far as his knowledge extends.

He has books, in his room, and one of those books has maps.

So, intellectually, the things he knows have a loose context.

But for most of his life, there has been just this room.

And, of course, the one next door.

A girl lives in that room.

They have numbers, he and this girl. There were more of them, a long time ago. Jon can still remember this. When he was small, very small, he wasn’t always in this room. There were other children, and adults as well, and people weren’t afraid of him, of all of them, yet.

But when his body began to change, when he began to grow into a man, things changed.

He changed.

So, he thinks, did she.

They all did, and then they weren’t allowed to leave their rooms, anymore.

That’s not strictly true, though.

The two of them, that are left, they are allowed to leave. They are encouraged to leave. They are forced to leave. But Jon likes to lie to himself about this, and she does, too, the girl next door. Sometimes, when the lights are dimmed, and they are told to go to sleep, a sweet smell comes through the vents.

They know what it means, now, that sickly sweet smell, and it makes him angry.

It makes her cry, the girl next door. She knows what comes next. He does, too, but he still thinks he can fight it, thinks he can simply refuse to breathe. It used to be injections, but when Jon began to learn what he could do, ways he could change, ways he could protect himself, the approach had changed.

Mutations. That’s what these changes are called. Not all the scientists here are bad, exactly. Some even call him Jon, not Specimen Eleven, not Mutant, not Monster. Some aren’t afraid of him. But most of them are. And if they are afraid of him, they are terrified of the girl next door, Specimen Twelve, Daenerys.

She can do things he can’t do.

But when the air smells sweet, and they are no longer in control of their own actions, then they are free from these rooms. Then they are driven places, docile and still, but sometimes in his sleep he can feel the jostling of the van they are driven in.

Sometimes, when he sleeps, he can hear the screams of the people they kill, when they climb out of the van, and they are given instructions. They always obey, the two of them. They have no choice, then. Their minds are not theirs to control.

The worst nights, when he wakes up screaming, his throat raw and his cheeks wet, are when he sees their faces. He doesn’t want to remember, but he can’t forget. He can’t forget what he is, because he is a killer, and the ones here, who are afraid of him, are right to be.

Even the ones who pretend they aren’t are afraid of him, deep down. He can feel it, can see it growing like a poisonous weed in their minds, even when they keep their voices soft and friendly, so they can do their tests.

The only mind he sees that is free of fear, when it comes to him, is hers, the girl next door, Dany. She’s more afraid of herself than she could ever be of him.

One day, he tells himself, as he goes to sleep, they will escape this place. There is a vent, a small metal one, next to his narrow bed. On the other side of that vent is her bed, against the wall they share. In the night, they talk to each other, and this is what they have promised: they will escape, together.

But Jon isn’t sure he believes they can, anymore.

And even if they could, they have nowhere to go.

\---------

It’s hard to keep track of time. Each day runs together, eventually, but some days just feel different.

Jon rises, and climbs from his bed, showers quickly and efficiently, each action the same as it was the day before.

But when he approaches the door to his room, peers through the narrow, rectangular slit, something is off. His only view is, generally, the long corridor, lined with fluorescent strip lighting along the ceiling, a series of doors lining the wall to his right, a small station of desks to the left. Most days, there are one or two staff at the desk, nurses, or doctors, he’s always assumed. They are most certainly scientists, of some sort.

But today, the corridor is dark.

He tries to feel, in the way that he can, with his mind, to find some sign of life, the lub-dub of a heart beat, the faint echo of a voice. He finds nothing, save for Daenerys, in the room next to his. He pushes harder, harder than he’s used to, farther still than he’s ever dared, but there is nothing.

They’re gone, and his stomach gives a sick twist, because he thinks this ought to please him. He thinks that this is their chance, to break free, to escape, but then fear creeps in. This is the only world he knows, and though it may be a prison of sorts it is familiar. He does not know how to exist, in the world beyond, because he might be a monster, after all. He isn’t sure.

There is a scuffling, and scraping through the wall, and then her voice, tinny and quiet, through the vent.

“Jon?” She sounds afraid, and he finds that curious, wonders if the way he has been brushing against her mind has fed her his fear. “What’s happening?”

He scrambles over to the vent, fingers trembling. It has always been there, he thinks, this undercurrent of protectiveness, where she is concerned. He can’t help it. She has been his only true companion for so long, even though he knows he hasn’t seen her face since they were very small. But it is a kind face, that much remembers, the little girl with silver hair and purple eyes, who can make fire in her hands.

“Dany,” he whispers back. “They’re gone. All of them. I can’t feel them, anywhere.”

He hears a hissing intake of breath. She is silent, for several minutes, but he can very nearly feel the frantic thrumming of her pulse, rapid as a hummingbird’s wings, like a steady vibration in the air. “We should go, Jon. Now, while we can.”

She is afraid, yes, and so is he, but the other part of him, the bravest part, the part that wants to be free, can’t help but agree.

But if they’re going to break out, first they need to break through their doors. He thinks he knows the way, has pondered this several times, but he’s never attempted it, not of his own free will. His mind is the only tool he uses freely.

“Okay,” he says, looking around nervously, his voice shaky, but louder. “Okay. I’m going to try to get my door open, then I’m going to come for you.” He pauses, considering, feeling around again, ensuring they are still alone in this now-abandoned building. “If anyone comes, Dany, you run. I’ll find you, I promise.”

He cannot see her agreement, but he can feel it, like a warmth spreading through his temples, flaring in his chest. She always makes him feel warm, when he is coldest, when he is afraid. They have learned to comfort each other, this way.

He stands again, creeps towards his door. There are no hinges on the interior, just metal and the reinforced glass pane, threaded through with wire. He cannot beat his way through it, not as it is. But Jon has spent many years reading, and learning, and he thinks he knows the way it could be done.

He lays his palm flat against the white painted metal, and lets himself go, grows as cold as an arctic wind, lets the ice in his veins free.

There is a cracking, a groaning, and then, as he stands back and examines the frost that has formed the door’s surface, he knows he’s done it. With a short, nervous exhale he grits his teeth, takes a few paces back and then runs at the door, throwing his shoulder into it, gasping in belated surprise when it bursts at the sudden force, and then he’s in the hallway. Metal clatters and clinks around him, falling to the sterile, white-tiled floor.

He laughs, and it is a sound so foreign that he looks around, at first, not sure where the harsh, barking noise came from. A thump steals his attention away, and she is there. Her door, just beside his, has the same narrow window, and there is Dany, a purple eye peering though the glass, wide and frightened.

“Jon?” Her voice is muffled through the metal, but he nods, knowing she is watching him closely.

“Get back,” he shouts. She could open her door, he knows this. Where his bloods sings with bitter cold, hers is fire, but her fear will not let her attempt it. He already knows this, and he won’t force her, not now. She nods quickly, and then she is gone, but he double checks, peeking into her room and ensuring she is pressed against the back wall.

He repeats the same process, and when he bursts through her door, the metal disintegrating like wet paper, it is only a few seconds before she runs to him, throws her arms around him, and he cannot help but marvel at the way she feels. She is so warm, everywhere she touches him, her cheek against his, her hands around his neck, clinging tightly.

“Jon,” she whispers, and his neck and collar as soon wet with tears. She sniffs, shaking her head against him. “I was starting to wonder if you were even real. I thought maybe I made you up. I thought maybe I was going mad.”

He holds her tighter, eyes slamming shut, and he lets them both just have this moment, because he had thought the same, about her.

“Dany,” he whispers into her hair, finally, reluctantly pulling away. “We need to get out of here.”

She stares at him, and in his arms she trembles, but she is trying to be brave. She smiles, and flicks her finger at the loose fabric of his shirt, eyes taking in the matching drawstring pants, a bland beige. Hers are the mirror image, with one exception. Over his heart, in scarlet, is stitched his identity, the number 11 embroidered on the pocket. On hers, the number 12 stitched with the same care.

It’s all he’s ever worn. He’s sure it’s the same for her.

“Let’s go,” she says, and she sounds more certain than she is. He can’t blame her. He’s afraid, too.

He nods. “C’mon,” he says, and takes her hand, and they leave, together.

\-------------

He feels short of breath, panting and sweating with exertion, though his companion seems to be faring better. They have been running for what must be miles, the compound behind them, following dirt roads that led into the woods that surrounded the building.

That’s when he feels it.

Someone is coming.

And it is not random, it is no simple coincidence.

Someone is looking for them.

He pulls Dany off the road, the sepia dirt staining the white soles of their shoes, and into the shadow of the trees.

“Shhh,” he breathes, and pulls her against his chest, trying to make them as small as possible, to condense them so that the tree trunks and the dark from the canopy of leaves above can hide them. Someone knew they were out here. Someone knew they’d escaped.

He isn't going back, and he isn't going to let them take Daenerys, either.

Jon closes his eyes, and concentrates, whispers calmingly to the slight woman wrapped in his arms, his hand smoothing along her silver hair, and he *feels*.

He casts a wide net, and now he knows their number.

There are three people in these woods.

And one is very, very close.

He revises his opinion, almost immediately, because what is nearest them is something that feels feral and wild, more beast than human. A snuffling pierces the air, and a low, husky voice growls out, “Over here. They came this way.”

The other two feel strange as well, in a way that only Dany has ever felt to him. Different, not quite normal.

His breath catches when a twig cracks nearby.

The sun is setting, and Jon thinks, quickly, that they can run for it, be lost in the darkening night, and escape.

Then the voice calls out to him, by name.

“Jon,” he hears, and though it is just as bestial as it had sounded before, there is a feminine lilt to it. “Is that you?”

He stills, and so does Daenerys, and he cannot feel further into this creature’s mind, cannot parse intent, and so he does not answer.

“Daenerys,” the voice tries again, and her face presses closer into his neck at the sound of her name. “We know you’re here. We don’t want to hurt you. We came to help you.”

His throat seizes, because he has no reason to trust this voice.

Then another branch snaps, to his left, another voice, this one decidedly male, though definitely friendlier, much more human, chimes in. “She’s telling the truth. We got rid of the guards, and the doctors, didn’t we? We were trying to get you both out of there, but when we arrived you’d already gone.”

“Leave us alone!” His voice breaks at the end, and Dany is breathing so quickly and heavily that he thinks she might pass out, every exhale a shivering gust of hot breath at his shoulder. “We don’t need your help!”

It is a not a voice the ear can discern that comes next, but one that speaks directly to his mind. It has a feeling with it, something calm, and peaceful, and despite his best efforts he feels himself relax, just a touch.

_Jon. I know you can hear me, lad._

He looks around, though he knows the source of this voice will likely not show itself.

_Jon, we’ve been looking for you. You and Daenerys. For years I have been waiting, and searching, but you have been hidden well. But now, I’ve found you. I want you to come with me, with us._

His jaw is so tight he can feel the muscles begin to cramp.

**_And why should we trust you?_ **

He feels a shimmer of humor creep into his mind.

_You can see for yourself. Look, and see. I have nothing to hide from you._

A flood of images flash through his mind, then. A sprawling manse, with gothic peaks and towers, the sound of laughter, birds chirping in the trees, endless green grass and a placid lake. Then he is inside and a door opens, and a man steps forward, a bearded man with gray hair and kind blue eyes. He perches on the edge of the stately desk, surrounded by endless bookshelves, so many tomes on the walls that Jon almost salivates with curiosity and yearning. The man looks at him and smiles.

_My name is Davos Seaworth. I have a home, for people like you, and Daenerys. People like us. Where we can be safe. I want to take you there, if you’ll let me._

There is a pause.

_I promise, no one will hurt you. I swear it. I swear my life on it, Jon. And we both know you could end it, couldn’t you?_

He feels a flush of shame, for the things he would like to forget, the things he has been made to do. He looks down at Dany, and tips her chin up. “They want to help us. Take us with them.” She begins to shake her head, her brow furrowing, and he can hear her thoughts then as if she screamed them aloud.

“No,” he says to her, in answer to her unspoken argument. “We will not trade one prison for another. If they try to harm us, we will make them stop, alright?” There is a deadly calm that has settled around him, and he speaks louder, now, because he wants them to understand his warning, any of them who listen. “Do you trust me?”

Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, but she nods, still clinging tightly to him.

“Come out,” comes a growl, and though his knees threaten to give Jon obeys, emerging from the treeline, Dany’s hand tight in his.

Then he gasps, and recoils, because standing before him is a massive, panting wolf. It stands so large that he thinks it must be the size of a horse, but he isn’t entirely sure on that count. He’s never seen a horse in reality, only in pictures.

But he knows natural wolves can’t be this big.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” the wolf says, and takes a step forward, then another, and sniffs at his hair as he closes his eyes. She does the same to Daenerys, then, satisfied, steps back.

Jon opens his eyes, an even greater shock greeting him, because she becomes smaller, and smaller, and then she is not a wolf, she is a girl, shorter than Daenerys, with a shock of dark hair and wide grey eyes. “I’m Arya,” she says, so matter-of-factly that Jon begins to think he’s imagined things.

She jerks a thumb to Jon’s left, where a young man steps up, and he knows this is the friendlier voice from the woods. “Gendry,” he says, with a little wave. “This way,” he says, and waves again, beginning to jog down the dirt road.

Arya walks behind them, and he can feel the weight of her stare as he and Dany shuffle forward, hands still twisted together, unsure, but out of options.

This is not the world he knows, anymore. This is the world beyond the walls, the real world, and it is a truth he does not like, but must accept all the same, that he doesn’t know how to live in it.

They reach a sleek black car, and a man steps out, and it is the man from Jon’s mind.

He circles the car and opens a door in the back, smiling gently at the pair as he ushers them inside. “Let’s go home,” he says, and Jon wonders, as he stares out the window and into the sunset sky, what they’ve gotten themselves into.

He hopes, for both their sakes, that he hasn’t made a huge mistake.


	2. Firestarter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany arrive at their new home, and struggle to decide who they should trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again!
> 
> Very glad you are going on this weird little trip for me. I've had several questions that I wanted to address, I guess. So, this story does feature several X-Men elements, but you don't need to be familiar with it to understand what's happening here. For those who are more familiar, you'll definitely recognize some specific skillsets as belonging to particular mutants, but for some I've added a few kickers here or there. For example, in the next chapter we'll explore the full array of abilities that Jon and Dany have. For Jon, I don't think I'm spoiling much if I say he's a blend of Emma Frost and Iceman (Bobby Drake), but all the characters here will have backstories that are geared to their GOT characters. 
> 
> That knowledge isn't necessary to enjoying the story, though. I'll be describing plainly enough what everyone can do, who it was that were keeping Jon and Dany prisoner, what happened to the others Jon remembers, and more.
> 
> Also be forewarned, these first two chapters were sort of setting the table, we're getting into the meat and potatoes (and much longer chapters) starting with the next update.
> 
> Enjoy! And stay safe!

Jon isn’t sure how long he sleeps, but the night is full upon them when he nods awake, finding himself the subject of close scrutiny by his new acquaintances. He does not need to look down to know that Dany is curled against his chest. He can feel the solid heat of her, the realness of her, her silky hair tickling at his neck where her head is tucked beneath his chin. He tightens the arm around her, holding her closer, his instinct to protect her overriding everything as he blinks owlishly at the pair seated before him.

“Good, you’re awake,” the one called Arya says. She jerks her chin towards Dany, her lips just barely curling up as she studies the two of them. “Need to take a leak?”

Jon frowns slightly. “What?”

Gendry rolls his eyes at the dark-haired girl and then turns to Jon. “It’s a figure of speech, mate. Do you need to use the privy?” He stretches as he waits for Jon to answer, groaning as his back lets out several loud pops. “Got a few more hours to go.”

“Oh.” Jon shakes his head, hand pressing into Dany’s back. “No, we’re fine, I think.” He looks out the window. The moon is fat and full in the sky, and it is a thing of beauty. He’s never seen it like this, he thinks. He has seen hints and glimpses, but even then, he was not in control of his own mind. He looks away, quickly, before he does something stupid, like crying in front of these strangers. He clears his throat, marshalling his control, a tentative probe of his mind against Dany’s assuring him she is peaceful in her sleep. “Where are we going, precisely?”

“Davos’s Home for Wayward Monsters,” Arya answers dryly, giving Gendry a cross look when he swats a chiding hand at her arm. “Fine,” she huffs out. “It’s Davos’s place, in the Vale. In the Mountains of the Moon.”

“The Eyrie,” the older man offers cheerily, from the front seat. “I think you’ll like it, Jon. Very peaceful. Very remote.”

Jon considers this. The places sound familiar; He has seen it in his books, traced it with his finger on a map, read about it, and he cannot deny a little flare of excitement, at the notion of seeing it in person. But his fear remains, as well. A lifetime of captivity has made his trust a thing hard-earned. He only trusts Dany. He only truly knows her.

As if she can sense his thoughts, she burrows against him, letting out a sigh as she shifts in his grip, making herself more comfortable.

“What happened to the people at the compound?”

Arya and Gendry exchange a look. “Knocked out,” Gendry says, then pauses. “Mostly.”

Arya fidgets for a moment, then tips her chin up defiantly, her eyes daring anyone to challenge her. “I killed two of them.”

Jon stiffens, and then Davos is speaking, but not aloud.

**_Unfortunate, but necessary, lad. We do not like to take lives, but sometimes we must._ **

Jon cannot judge, not really. He shudders when he lets himself ponder how much blood is on his hands. He nods tightly in return. “Thank you. For helping us.” Arya just continues to study him, but when he glances at Gendry, the young man gives him a true, genuine smile. But then his smile falters, and he sees a strange, commiserating sadness lurking underneath.

“What they were doing to you, what they’ve done to you,” he trails off for a moment, swallowing hard. “It’s not right. In some places, they hunt us like animals. In others, we’re lab rats. And some people,” he heaves a heavy sigh, “well, some people just want to use us as weapons. We aren’t people to them. Just tools.”

Silence falls heavy between them all, and Jon wonders what has happened to them, all of them. Still, Arya stares, but her voice is softer, quieter, when she asks him another question. “Do you know anything about yourself? Where you’re from? Who your people are?”

Jon looks down. Sometimes, when he dreams, there are flashes of *something*. A woman with dark hair, smiling at him. A man with a kind face, picking him up. But these things, like many others, are transient things, teasing him with knowledge that dissipates like smoke when he tries to take hold. “I’ve been at the compound as long as I can remember.” He nods down at Dany. “Her, as well. It’s all we’ve ever known.”

He understands what he sees in their eyes, but he is unsure how to feel about it. Is he deserving of pity? Does he require it? He sighs, and shifts his stare to the sky, at the way the streetlights occasionally illuminate the trees that fly past. Against him, he feels Dany stir, knows that she is waking. He can feel awareness settling inside her mind, and he is already gazing down at her when she blinks up at him, groggily.

“Hello,” he whispers, and he cannot help but wonder if this is all some sort of fantastic imagining he fabricated inside his head. Her face has been there before, he now knows. His waking mind had not been able to recall her fine, delicate features. But a part of him, he thinks, knew what he would find peering through her window, eyes wide and afraid, knew the face that was waiting for him on the other side of her door.

She smiles at him, a tiny thing, and it stirs him, how vulnerable she seems, just then. He understands the nature of what is between them, now, can feel the contours of it though it cannot be seen. He knows her mind, her fears, what causes her, now, to worry her bottom lip between her teeth.

“It’s alright,” he says quietly. “Still driving. Are you okay?”

Dany nods, sparing a look to Arya and Gendry, whom Jon realizes are watching them closely.

When his companion says nothing, just settles back into the crook of his neck, her hand finding the one slung over her shoulder and threading their fingers together, it is Arya who breaks the silence.

“Is she mute?”

Dany’s brow wrinkles, and she seems vaguely offended. She purses her lips. “No,” she utters, as Arya’s brows raise. “I can speak.”

Jon understands. She is uncomfortable. She does not know them. His fear is hers. And Jon has learned to channel his fear, to master it, all those years in the prison of his quarters. But Dany is different. The power inside her is a wild thing, and it grows, and feeds. It is difficult for her to control. He squeezes her fingers with his.

_I do believe they want to help us._

Her eyes fly to his, dark and worried in the low light. “I don’t know if they can.”

She regards Arya and Gendry, and Jon cannot see her face, but he knows how wary she is, can feel it rolling off her in waves.

“Why have you come for us?”

It is Gendry who answers, his voice soft, eyes full of understanding. “To help you. To set you free. No one deserves to spend their life caged, because of what they are.”

Dany shudders, and he feels the war inside her mind, to pull away, to question further. She does not believe them, not really, because…

He says it aloud. “You don’t know what we are. Not really.” He closes his eyes, head dropping as he tries to find the words he seeks, the right words, to explain.

“If you did,” Dany says, “you wouldn’t have come for us.” He can hear the sadness in her voice, the pain. He ignores the truth that lies between them, the destruction they have wrought together, but not Dany. She cannot help but think of it.

Arya gives them both a hard look, as Jon raises his head, but again, Gendry interjects. “We know what you are,” he explains, then gestures between himself and Arya. “You’re like us. Like Davos. You’re different.”

Jon looks up, suddenly, can see the older man watching him, his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. “What’s happened before doesn’t matter. What’s happened before,” Davos says in a gruff voice, “that’s in the past, and there it will stay.”

\----------

They stop, a few hours later, driving up to a garishly-lit building where Davos orders food for them. It’s not like anything he’s ever tasted. His fingers feel greasy and the wrapper crinkles in his hands, but he devours this ‘cheeseburger’ as though he’s never eaten a meal in his life.

Dany appears smitten after her first bite. He tries to ignore her satisfied moans as she consumes it, the sides of their thighs jostling against each other as the car navigates a poorly maintained side street. There is an awareness of her that is not wholly unfamiliar, but normally this feeling exists only in his dreams. It makes his cheeks burn, and he stares steadily out the window as he eats in an effort to marshal control over his suddenly wayward body.

As with everything else, in this moment in time, he is in unfamiliar territory, but slowly, surely, he pushes those thoughts from his mind, instead focusing on Gendry. “Were you rescued, as well?”

Gendry’s face tightens, and he balls up his wrapper and throws it in a paper sack, clearing his throat, eyes darting everywhere before settling on the space beside Jon’s head, not directly meeting his eyes. He is not trying to be dishonest, this much Jon can tell. But he is uncomfortable, all the same.

“In a manner of speaking. Grew up in Flea Bottom. Never knew my father, and my mother died when I was a little thing. So, I grew up homeless, bouncing from place to place where I could,” here Gendry shrugged, and scratched at his jaw, wincing a bit. “Did what I had to do to survive. Fell in with some folks who weren’t quite on the up and up.” He catches Jon’s eyes and holds them, and Jon sees the odd commiseration there, suddenly, hears what Gendry does not say.

Arya speaks, but Jon does not look away from Gendry, gives a short nod, as if to say that he understands. “We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of. That’s how it is, when you’re like us.” In the other man’s eyes is a miserable twist of agreement; And, Jon realizes, that he knows.

He knows what Jon has done. He knows what Daenerys has done. Because he, Jon suspects, has done much the same. ‘Did what I had to do to survive’, he replays in his head. Yes, he thinks. That is what they have done, but they have not lived, not really.

Jon feels a first glimmer of something that feels like hope, as their car moves steadily onward, that perhaps this, now, is their chance.

\-----------

This is no simple home, Jon thinks, as they pass enormous, intricately detailed wrought-iron gates, as he sees the sprawling fields of green and the tree line dotted with buildings, as his eyes behold the massive manor that belongs to Davos Seaworth.

The sheer scope of it, after what he has lived with, is enough to make him gasp.

But then he sees them, and feels them, at the same time.

People.

So many people.

People that don’t feel precisely like ‘people’ at all.

They emerge from the car as one, he and Daenerys, her small hand holding tight to his forearm, and Arya gives them both a wry smile, casting her eyes up at the gabled rooftops and sea of windows above their heads, encased in ancient, vine-trailed brick and stone.

“So small, so humble,” she says, grinning at Davos as he places a hand on her shoulder. “Practically a shack.” Davos messes her hair, then gestures to Jon and Dany, as they simply stand, staring, mouths falling open as they struggle to take it all in.

“I’ve got rooms ready for you,” Davos says, and though unspoken, a glimmer of uncertainty lingers between the newcomers. Despite that, Jon shifts his grip, until Dany’s fingers and folded against his, and lets out a deep breath.

“Let’s see, then,” he says, more to Daenerys than Davos, but the older man just smiles and leads them inside, through hallways of arched stone and warm wood floors, up staircases that wind and twist, and Jon begins to wonder, as they pass hidden alcoves and rooms filled with people, just exactly what sort of place this truly is.

Over his shoulder, Davos answers, and he feels only a slight hint of resentment that the man is inside his head.

“Used to be a castle,” Davos says casually, “thought I bought for a steal, quite a long time ago. Now, I suppose you might call it a school, of sorts. For some.” He glances back at Jon, watery blue eyes twinkling. “And I’m not in your head, exactly. Your mind is screaming, to be honest. Perhaps here you can learn to quiet it a bit.”

They walk down yet more hallways, the walls a rich, warm cream, paneled halfway up in the same richly hued wood.

“Mahogany,” Davos says, then throws Jon a wink. “As I said, we’ll work on it, Jon.” His good-natured tone combats most of Jon’s embarrassment, but he still glances at Dany, a bit bashfully, and she gives him a gentle smile and a squeeze of his fingers with hers.

Davos stops before a set of doors, then pauses, considering, staring into the air above their heads for a moment. “Here we are,” he says gruffly, pointing to each in turn. “Jon, you’ll be here,” he directs, gesturing to his left, “and Daenerys, lass, this will be your room.” With a flourish to the right, he steps back, and shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, regarding them both solemnly. “Been a lot of change, and not a lot of time to process it in, I know. But before I leave you to settling in, I want you to know something. I’ll not force you to be here. You can leave anytime you wish. But I hope, for all our sakes, that you’ll stay with us for a bit.”

One more knowing smile, one more pointed glance at both of them, and he departs, leaving Jon and Daenerys alone in each other’s company.

Jon feels awkward, as though his skin is too tight, his palms itchy, as he looks at her, at the way the afternoon sun makes her silver hair look like spun gold. She licks her lips, nervously, and he looks away, because he realizes this is not the time to stare at her mouth, that in many ways, despite what they’ve been through, in many ways they are still strangers.

Dany fidgets on her feet for a moment, seeming, finally, to decide on a course of action, and then she steps into his space, her skin pleasantly warm against his, her arms going around his neck, and she hugs him, tightly.

“I’m glad you are here, Jon. I’m glad we’re together.”

She pulls back, just enough to stare up at him, and his throat thickens, and he feels wetness gather suspiciously in his eyes. He cannot fully remember the last time he cried, at least not while he was awake, but he understands. He thinks it might be true that he would be lost without her. Tentatively, he wraps her arms around her, and hugs her back. “Me too,” he whispers against her hair, and he means it. He shudders to think of the emptiness he would feel, without her presence.

They realize, at almost the same time, that they have been embracing longer than they ought to, and she steps back shyly, pressing her lips together tightly, and reaches for the doorknob to her new quarters. “I’ll see you later,” she whispers, then disappears behind the solid wood, and Jon closes his eyes with a sharp exhale. He has to work out this new state of being, this world where he is not alone, save for unwanted prodding and poking, and he is free to do things like touch her.

He has much to learn, he realizes, and enters his own room, turning in a slow circle as he spies a large bed made with thick, heavy blankets, large overstuffed pillows tucked against a grand carved headboard. There is a room, set just off his, opposite the wall he shares with Dany, no doubt a privy, no doubt far more luxuriously appointed than what he is accustomed to. There is a heavy wooden desk, and a wall inlaid with bookshelves, the leather-bound spines calling to him, begging him to stroke a finger along each, to dive in and immerse himself and hide away between the words contained within.

But he is done hiding, he tells himself, spying his reflection in the vanity mirror. The boy he was, scared, and afraid, living for years caged like an animal, he learned to hide. That is not who stares back at him, now. He’s not a boy anymore.

Now, he can choose who he wants to be, and the enormity of his makes his knees weak and wobbly, forces him to sit on the edge of the bed, hands braced on his legs. Now he can be anything he wants. He stands, beginning to pull open drawers and peek inside, finding several changes of clothes that look to be his size. He grimaces and plucks at the beige material across his chest, at the scarlet ‘11’ that he has worn forever. He shucks off the clothes, quickly, and grabs replacements almost blindly, and as he steps into the bathroom and flicks on the lights, he smiles to himself.

He’s free, he thinks, and he finally, truly lets himself believe it, as he starts the shower.

\------------

Dinner is brought to their rooms, but Jon has only had time to lift the metal cover of the serving dish before a light knock sounds at his door. He knows who it is. He knows her presence, the warmth that seems to emanate from her, even when he cannot see her.

“Come in,” he calls, and marvels at the newness of it, when she appears, tray in hand.

She has showered as well, he sees, her hair held back in a still-wet braid that trails down her back, her own beige clothing replaced by a soft blue sweater and black slacks that fit her as though they were made for her. He desperately fights the traitorous images in his mind, of her, in her room, in her shower, hopes she can’t see the truth of his wayward thoughts all over his face.

She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t need to, really. She just seats herself, setting her tray upon the small, square table next to his, and dives in.

They are halfway through their meal, a tender meat served in a rich, savory sauce, a starchy vegetable that he thinks are potatoes, and an assortment of vegetables and breads. It is the finest feast they’ve ever had, and they cannot stop smiling at each other as they shove bite after bite into their mouths.

Dany leans back, fingers tearing absently at a bread roll, and studies him. “Are you doing this?” When he cocks his head questioningly, his mouth still full, she waves her finger around the room. “All of this, I mean.” She shakes her head, eyes full of a wistful hope, tempered with worry. “It seems too wonderful to be real.” She sips at her drink, something canned and fizzy and sweet that amazes them both, and her mouth twists. “It’s like a dream.”

The sun has dipped below the horizon, and there is only the faint glow of the scattered lamps in the room allowing them to see, and Jon understands. It *is* like a dream, one he hopes he never wakes up from. But, he knows it isn’t. He understands why she asks. When they were younger, when he was first fully aware of what he could do, he would share dreams with her, craft an escape for them both. Especially if she had been crying. He didn’t like to hear her upset, not ever, and so he would create something else, some other place for their minds to go, and he would fill it with things he had read.

“It’s real,” he answers quietly. “Do you trust them?” There is no point in beating around the bush. There are things they should discuss, things only they can, things that pertain to what they will do next. He does not even pretend it is an option, that they would do things separately.

Dany takes another bite, chewing slowly, allowing herself time to think his question over. “To a degree, yes. They are like us. I suppose everyone here is.” She shudders. “Did you see the children? So many.” She places her cutlery down gently, hands coming up to cup her own arms, hugging herself, as though she is cold. That’s not possible, really, he knows that much. “For so long, I’ve thought we were the only ones.”

Jon did indeed see the children. He wonders if they are here because they wish to be. He thinks they must be. They looked….happy.

“Do you think we can truly leave if we wish?” Her quiet question shakes him from his reverie, and he sees the kernel of terror in her eyes, the way her fingers tremble.

“We won’t let ourselves be prisoners anymore. If we want to leave, we will,” he says, firmly, unsure where the steel edge in his voice comes from, but he means it. “But,” he says, tipping his head back and forth slightly, “it seems to me Davos spoke truly.”

They ate in silence for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts, until her hesitant question broke the quiet. “Should we stay?”

He does not miss that she says ‘we’, cannot ignore the pleasant heat that floods him that she sees them as he does – a unit, a team. Together, in their choices.

He nods. “For a while, at least. Until we can sort out some things.”

She chuckles, and reaches for another roll. “Like what?”

Jon shrugs, his own laugh barely stifled. “Like, everything?” He makes a show of looking around, as she laughs, a sound so full and rich that he thinks he can feel it, down to the tips of his toes. “We don’t even have proper names, which I’m fairly certain you need to do, well, anything.” There is a sense, something that flows between them, that they stand on a cliff’s edge, now, and the past chases them with snarling, snapping teeth and sharp claws. They have to take a chance, now, they have to jump.

Dany reaches across the table, suddenly, and takes his hand, and he can think of nothing else. Just her skin against his, and the way his heart begins to pound. “For awhile, then. But swear something to me, Jon.”

“Anything,” he whispers. “Just ask it.”

Her eyes grow soft, and her chin quivers. “Don’t leave without me, if you go. Please.”

He cannot stop himself. He rises, and rounds the table, and gathers her up in his arms, lets his mind press against hers, so that she will know, so that she will understand. “We’re in this together, Dany. We always have been, and we always will be.”

“Promise?” He thinks he hears her ask it aloud, but it might have been all in his head, or hers. It doesn’t matter, because his answer is the same.

“I promise.”

She smiles, and he knows, beyond a doubt, that she believes him. “Good,” she says, relief coloring her response, and she pulls back, dropping back into her seat, her eyes wide as she picks up a large roll covered in a sticky white icing. “Split this with me, it’s the size of my head.”

When they finish, their spirits considerably lifted, she moves to leave, her hand on the door frame, when he calls to her.

“Dany.” She turns, to find him standing beside the ornate hearth, guarded with the same intricate ironwork he saw on the gates, freshly split wood stacked inside. “Could you help me?” Her face wrinkles, just a bit. She knows what he asks, but he is pressing her, just a tad. He knows what she’s worried about.

“What if I can’t control it? I could burn this place to the ground, Jon. All the people—”

He cuts her off, crossing to stand before her, holding his hand up between them, letting her see the frost that gathers and crusts his hand as he wills it. “You can control it. I know you can. And if not, I can help you. I can make it stop.”

Still, she hesitates. “Please, Dany,” he pleads, and she relents, finally, moving to the hearth and kneeling before it.

He pulls the grate cover away, and she stares at the wood, then at her cupped hands. Inside her, there is an inferno, one that boils and rages, one she keeps tightly contained. He has seen what happens when it is set free, when she has her restraint ripped away, when she is forced to burn like the sun. He does not think about those things, though, and instead kneels beside her.

“Just a little,” he whispers. “Breathe, and focus, take it slow. You know what to do, I know it.”

Her lovely face it lit, slowly, by an orange glow, as a small spark flares to life in the palm of her hand. She inches a finger towards the wood, letting the flame grow and travel, letting it crawl down her finger and drop into the kindling just below the logs.

Dany does not move. Her hand remains amongst the rising flames, as the wood catches, as the fire grows stronger. He wonders how it feels, if it is as welcome as the cool slide of icy beneath his fingertips. It must be. It is as much a part of her as the freezing chill of frost that gathers is of him.

Then, her sleeve catches, and she begins to panic, eyes huge with fear. “Jon,” she gasps, “I can’t put it out, it won’t—”

There is a hiss as his palms close over her arm, as intense heat meets the frozen surface of his skin.

Smoke rises between them as their eyes meet. “You’re fine, you see? You did it.” He eyes the charred material of her sweater. “It’s just a sleeve. Don’t concern yourself over that.” He slowly slides his palms to her cheeks, cups her face in his cold hands, until her eyes grow less wild. “Thank you, Dany.”

She blinks, once, then twice. “You’re welcome,” she whispers, and struggles to stand. “I should go to my room now.” He doesn’t know what to make of what he feels from her. She is not as panicked, but there is something else, there, around the edges. He does not push, though, not now. He has pushed her enough for one night.

“Goodnight, Dany.” She spares him a final look, over her shoulder, before the door separates them.

After he has changed, and climbed into the bed, wondering if he will be able to sleep in something so soft, after years of his narrow, cramped cot, he hears her, the whisper in his mind, and he smiles as he settles his head against his pillow.

_Goodnight, Jon._


	3. Bloodline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon learns a little more about himself, and others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on my bullshit again :) Probably full of mistakes, just ignore them, you get my drift. I'm sure I'll go back and fix them after I reread this and freak out about my millionth 'to' instead of 'too' typo.
> 
> This is something I'm just kinda tooling around with for fun, and hopefully you guys are enjoying it, too. The events in this fic will span about six months or so, so prepare for a time jump when our next chapter begins. Also, this is probably our last non-smut chapter. We were going there anyway :)
> 
> Anyway hope everyone is doing well, if you enjoy this absolute nonsense feel free to pay me in the form of kudos. Comment if the urge strikes, if not, that's okay, too. I know how that goes lol :) Happy Tuesday!

Arya knocks at his door so early the next morning that he groans, trying to bury his head under the astoundingly comfortable pillows and salvage a few more moments of sleep. He isn’t entirely sure what he has dreamt, but he is smiling despite the noisy intrusion.

Until a hand is on his foot, grabbing his ankle.

Then he is up and moving, in a flurry of motion that surprises him, his hand wraps around a slender neck instinctively. Jon is not used to be touched casually, especially when such comes unexpectedly, and it is a few moments of harsh panting before his eyes clear and focus. He realizes that Arya is gasping for air, and he releases her, shame sweeping through him.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, staring at his own hands in remorse, fearful that he’s done her true harm, but she just laughs at him and shoves a hand at his shoulder, almost playfully. “I’m so sorry, Arya, I didn’t—”

“Stop apologizing,” she says, still chuckling under her breath and crossing to throw open the curtains, allowing the sun to stream in. “Set myself up for that, didn’t I?” The slim girl folds herself into one of the plush, upholstered chairs, watching him as he rubs his eyes and slowly brings his breathing back under control. “You didn’t hurt me, Jon. Not really.”

Jon isn’t so sure, his eyes on the girl’s pale throat, wondering if he has bruised her, hating the notion that he’s hurt anyone. He can feel the coldness settling inside him, in the pit of his stomach, and he realizes, squinting, that he feels different.

Stronger.

He doesn’t know if this is a fortunate turn of events. Before, while he could feel the power inside himself, it was hard to grab and hold. It would slip away like water through his fingers when he tried too hard, alone in his room, to teach himself control.

But now, it was just below the surface, a whirling maelstrom, a storm that raged inside him, begging for release.

“The drugs have worn off now, haven’t they?” She simply sounds curious, this dark-haired girl, cocking her head to the side and folding her arms atop her knees to continue her observation.

Jon knows there have been times that he has been dosed with *something*. That cloying sweet smell in the air, that was always a sign. But the sharp pinch of a needle in his neck is another stinging memory, one buried deep, back to his earliest days. Until he began to change, and his skin had rejected their attempts to stab at him with their *medicines*.

“Davos can tell you about it. They circulated lots of things in the air that was fed into your rooms, you know. You and her. To keep you ‘docile’.” She brackets the words with her fingers in the air as she says it, lips twisted in disgust. “Tranquilized. Like animals.” Her gray eyes are brimming with a strange sadness, one he doesn’t understand. It’s a mystery to him why she ought to even care. She is a stranger, still. “But not here, Jon. Here, you can learn how strong you really are.”

“Is that why you’re here?” He wonders if it’s rude, to question her so, but it makes him feel off-kilter, that she should know so much about him while he knows so little about her.

Arya’s face falls, and he is immediately filled with regret, for even asking, but her face becomes hard, determined. Resigned, even.

“I had a family,” she whispers, and then she won’t look at him, and she is quiet for so long that he begins to think he ought to have held his tongue altogether. “I’m from the North, you know. Winterfell. Have you heard of it?”

Jon knows the name, from his books, and his maps. He knows that Winterfell is the capital of the North. In the North it snows for most of the year, and their chief exports are Ironwood and their armies. And Winterfell proper, an old, ancient Keep, has been held by the Starks for thousands of years. He spent an entire year devouring every book that could be found for him, on Westorosi history, and he is a little awed when he considers that she might be one of them.

“Are you a Stark?”

Gray eyes slam shut, but she nods, painfully, he realizes. “One of the last,” she intones quietly. She hugs her knees to her chest, and stares out the window when her eyes finally open again. “They’re dead now. My father, my mother. My sister, my brothers.” She sucks in a breath, releasing it with a wavering exhale. “But once, I had a family. A home.” She collects herself, becoming brusque, her voice clipped and cold, void of emotion. “When I was twelve my father sent me here, to Davos. Because I was different. And out there, Jon, when you are different, it’s dangerous. My father thought it would be safer for me here. And he was right.”

Jon has spent a great deal of time, over the years, nurturing the pity that festers inside him, for himself, for what has been done to him. But he realizes that there is enough horror in the world to be shared amongst many, as he watches a tear streak down Arya’s face.

“What happened?” Again, he fears he has overstepped, but Arya responds willingly enough, with a humorless laugh and a slow roll of her eyes.

“A gas leak.” She scoffs, and hugs her arms around her bent legs tighter. “That’s what the investigators said, anyway. All of them, dead in their sleep.” She snaps her fingers. “Just like that.”

He shucks aside the bedcovers and stands, swiping a hand down his face and thinking. He will not probe inside her mind, but her disbelief is clear enough that he doesn’t need to. “What really happened?”

Arya’s eyes close again, for a very long time, but when they snap open they are full of a deep, burning rage that almost makes him stagger where he stands. “There are people, Jon, who hate us, just for what we are. They are afraid of us, because we’re stronger than they are. They don’t care who we really are, they just care that we are different. Because the truth is, Jon,” her voice is deadly quiet, “if we wanted to, we could take this world for ourselves, and they know it. And some people will do anything to remove us. Or in your case, and Dany’s, find ways to control you, make you their little pets, take power for themselves, on your backs.”

Jon mulls this over; He knows the fear he’d seen in the eyes of the people who’d tended to him over the years. It has not really occurred to him that the wider world even knew people like Jon existed, until now. “Do you know who it was?”

Now Arya stands, arms crossing against her chest, defiantly. “The same people who kept you and your friend in a cage your whole lives.”

“Oh.” He feels so cold, and it is not a welcome sensation. It is a lonely thing, and he finds himself reaching for Daenerys, unconsciously, his mind searching for her warmth, the ice in his veins slowly thawing when he finds her, slowly rousing from sleep herself. She knows he is there, he thinks, because he can almost feel her smile.

“Yeah,” Arya says numbly. “So, I guess the question you should ask yourself, while you settle in, is if you want to do anything about it?”

She slips from his room without another word, leaving more questions than answers in her wake, and Jon dresses and prepares for the day slowly, not quite able to focus on anything, his mind racing.

But one question rises to the surface, overwhelming all the others.

Did he have a family, too? Did Dany?

\-----------

They spent the day with Arya and Gendry, learning the lay of the land, as it were, being shown around as though they were honored guests, and Jon found it strange, and wonderful in equal measure. Around every corner, there was another mystery to be discovered. After lunch he loses track of Dany and Arya, as they disappear to go watch ‘movies’, something Gendry tells him are pretend stories told for fun. He thinks of his books, and asks the difference, and Gendry just laughs and tells him movies are books for dummies and that’s why he likes them so much.

He also tells Jon he’ll show him ‘good’ movies later, but that Arya and Dany are watching things called ‘chick flicks’ then tells him not to ever mention it to Arya, because she’ll deny that she likes them but she really secretly loves them. This really just confuses Jon further, but Gendry shrugs it off and grins.

He spends the afternoon, instead, outside.

Gendry shows him what he can do, and Jon cannot deny that it’s impressive.

They are a fair distance away from the manor house when Gendry hands him a knife. “Know how to throw one of these?”

Jon turns it over in his hand. He’s not certain he’s ever used one, but it seems simple enough. Gendry shows him how to bend his arm, how to flick his wrist and at what point, until Jon thinks he grasps the basics.

Gendry nods, then jogs a few yards away. “Okay,” he calls, “now throw it at me.”

Jon starts, and looks incredulously at the other man. “What?”

Gendry laughs, and waves his hand towards himself. “You heard me, Jon. Throw it at me.”

“I have to throw a knife at you, for you to show me what you can do?” He speaks slowly, unsure of why anyone would want a sharp blade flung in their direction, but Gendry shakes his head, bemused.

“You don’t have to, I guess, but it makes it more fun. It’s *showmanship*, Jon. Just trust me.” He seems sure, confident in his request, so Jon shoves aside his misgivings and raises his hand.

“Okay.” And he lets the knife fly free, watching it spin end over end, but as it approaches his new friend Jon feels the air leave his lungs, his eyes growing round and mouth falling open as he sees what Gendry has become.

The young man he’d just seen is gone. In his place stands something else, entirely. A being, Jon thinks, forged of metal, at least two heads taller than he had been, broader and stronger and glistening in the sun. A low laugh escapes, as the knife bounces harmlessly off a silver-hued chest, and Jon feels the earth beneath his feet shake just a bit as this new Gendry stomps towards him. Even his face has become steel where skin had been, though Jon is thankful that somehow Gendry’s clothes have survived the transformation.

Gendry stops before him, turning from side to side. “Impressive, yeah?” He knocks a large silver hand against his chest, and Jon hears a ringing from the contact. “100% organic steel, mate.” Jon looks around, and realizes that the people scattered about are completely non-plussed by what’s just happened. Jon grabs at the man’s forearm before he can stop himself, and the cool metal beneath his hands proves to him that his eyes have not deceived him.

“Amazing,” Jon breathes, and slowly, begins to laugh as well. “That’s brilliant.” He releases Gendry’s arm, and before his eyes, just as it had been with Arya, he changes, growing smaller, more appropriately proportioned, blue eyes reappearing and twinkling merrily as he’s a familiar Gendry once again. “Have you always been able to do that?”

Gendry shoves his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, letting out a hum of half-hearted agreement as they begin to walk towards the lake. “I’ve always been strong, even as a kid, but this,” he waves a hand down himself, “started when I was twelve, I guess.”

He remembers what Gendry told him in the car, and he realizes exactly how much damage someone like Gendry could have caused, unchecked.

And as if he senses the direction of Jon’s thoughts, Gendry nods. “Got a bit of a body count under my belt, unfortunately. Not something I’m proud of, mind you, but that’s how it goes for a lot of us, on our own. We find ways to survive, to support ourselves, to try to have some kind of life, even if it’s not a very good one.” His cheerfulness has disappeared, and his eyes are heavy when they meet Jon’s. “The lucky ones, they end up here, right after they start changing. They learn how to master their abilities. They learn control. They have a purpose.” He frowns, and kicks at a rock in the path, as they arrive at the shore, and together they watch it sink beneath the gentle waves of the lake’s surface. “Some of us aren’t so lucky, and we learn the hard way, and it involves a lot of really bad shit, Jon.”

Gendry sits down in the soft green grass, and motions for Jon to do the same. He does, letting his mind wander, briefly, over things he’s shoved away, memories he has pushed so far into the dark corners of his heart that he has been sure they were hidden forever.

He is lost in it, his head bowed, but then Gendry speak again.

“Show me something you can do.”

His stomach flips nervously, but Gendry raises his hands, to each side, pointing. “No one here for you to hurt, and I’ve shown you it’s damn near impossible to hurt me. So, show me.”

Jon reaches out with his mind, just a feather touch, and realizes Gendry is truly unafraid.

So he stands, and moves forward a few feet, crouching and reaching a hand down until it is barely kissing the surface of the water. He knows what he wants to do. He can picture it in his mind. And that sensation he has felt all day, the one that tells him how easy it is, now, to reach into that well of power, proves correct.

It starts from his spread fingertips. Ice crystals form, and grow, outward, in a radiating circle that becomes ever larger, the more he applies himself. It’s so easy, so breathtakingly simple here, to just let this nebulous, swirling *thing* inside him free, and he is amazed at how startlingly good it feels.

He can hear the top layer of ice hardening and condensing, and he suspects it’s thick enough to stand on, if he wants. Jon looks up, realizes, alarmed, that he’s done more than he means to. The entire lake is frozen over, the perpetual lapping waves ceasing their motion, dips and curves of an icy blue, now, beneath his hand. He can barely make out frost creeping up onto the brown dirt that lines the shore, and he rocks back onto his heels, pulling his hand away.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Got away from me a bit.”

Even the air around him feels colder, and when he looks sheepishly at Gendry the man is grinning from ear to ear, breath fogging out in white puffs of air. “Sorry? Are you serious?” A look of shocked realization crosses Gendry’s face, then a heavy hand claps down on his shoulder. “Oh, shit, Jon, you gotta help me with something.” His eyes are practically begging, now, as he tugs at Jon’s shoulder. “Can you make snow?”

He does not give Jon a chance to respond, growing more excited with each word that passes his lips.

“Arya’s nameday is next month, right? So she’s from the North, did she tell you that? She said she was going to, but it snows there, like, all the time, and that’s the one thing she misses, you know, and you would be doing me a huge, huge solid, like a massive favor, if you could—”

Jon holds up a hand to stop the man’s speedy rambling. “In theory, I guess I could. I’ve never really tried it. Just ice.” He wiggles his fingers absently, staring at his hand and then back at the frozen lake. “I should try to undo this, I think.” He kneels, and places his hand back atop the ice, and for a moment he is lost. He’s not entirely sure if he can, on this scale, but he tries to find that will, that intent he exerted before, and logically he thinks it must simply be reversed.

He looks at Gendry, hesitating, but the other man just nods encouragingly. “It’s new, right? Really getting to know what you can do? How strong you are?” He rubs at his jaw, studying Jon closely, as though he’s searching for something, but then he nods. “Listen, here’s the thing. No one really understands how we can do what we do. Not even us, sometimes. But if you want some advice, here’s mine. Don’t think to hard about it, don’t try to piece it out, step by step. Think about what you want, then just let it happen.”

Jon nods, to himself, then closes his eyes, and does as Gendry suggests. That cold that has escaped flows back in, as though he is recapturing it within himself, replacing what he had set free.

And when Gendry sucks in a breath, Jon knows he’s done it.

He hears the slap of waves against the shore before his lids are parted, and Gendry gives a little clap, holding out a hand to pull Jon up as he stands.

“See? That’s the problem, most of the time. Thinking too much.” He stops them both, an arm out in front of Jon to bring him to a halt. “But don’t tell Arya I said that.” With a wry smile, he begins to walk again, brushing grass and dirt from his pants. “See, she says my problem is I don’t think *enough*, but she likes trying to take the piss out of me, so if she tells you something similar, don’t take it personally.”

Jon is confused, as they make their way to a side building, two boys exiting and giving Gendry a friendly wave, staring at Jon curiously but smiling all the same. They make their way inside and Jon looks around, unsure of what, precisely, they are doing here. The floor gives slightly under his feet, and the room is mirrored on three sides, with heavy, well-used racks of weights at his right. Still, even his new surroundings cannot distract him from Gendry’s words. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” Gendry nods, as if to assure Jon he’s listening, even as he rifles through a cabinet.

“Does Arya dislike you?” Gendry’s bark of laughter just furthers makes him frown. He is clearly missing something, but he isn’t sure what. The had seemed as though they got on well, on the journey here, and Jon had simply assumed they were friends of a sort, but from the way Gendry spoke, he wonders if he has presumed too much.

“’Course she likes me. You could go so far as to say she looooves me,” Gendry says, coming back to stand before Jon and handing him a pile of clothes. “She just likes to tease me, is all. That’s how I know she cares. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t bother, believe me. Plus, I mean, she shows me in plenty of other ways.” Gendry raises his eyebrows up and down, with a knowing look. “You know what I mean.”

It isn’t a question, but it raises several for Jon. “No, not exactly.”

This seems to startle Gendry, and he takes a step back, running a hand through his short, dark hair. “No shit?” He peers at Jon closely. “They weren’t trying to make you and Daenerys,” he trails off, seemingly mystified.

“Make us what?” He thinks he might know what Gendry means, but it seems unwise, at this juncture, to jump to any more conclusions.

Gendry blows out a breath and looks around, lowering his voice. “They weren’t breeding you?”

Jon is immediately horrified. He knows what that means. “No,” he says, aghast. “No, nothing like that. They never let us near each other, at least, not since we were small.”

Gendry appears torn. His face reveals an odd mix of relief and pity, and Jon has never been less tempted to peer inside another’s head. He doesn’t like the way he feels right now, and he suspects knowing what’s brewing behind the man’s eyes might make him feel worse. “Good for you,” Gendry finally answers, his mouth set in a firm line. “Some of the others, that we’ve found,” he glances around again, “they weren’t so lucky.”

For the first time in a very long time, he finds himself grateful for small mercies. Mostly. He understands, from an exceedingly clinical standpoint, from information gleaned in several textbooks provided for his studies, what Gendry is saying. He understands how mating works.

It is something he would like to do with Daenerys, he thinks. It’s not the first time he’s considered the act. But not like that. Never like that.

“Shit.” He tries the word out, and it’s satisfying, the curse, as it rolls of his tongue. “No. No. The day we escaped was the first time I’ve been in the same room as Dany since,” he tries to determine exactly the length of time, but he can’t. They had no calendars, no clocks, no ways to mark the passage of the days. “Well, years, I guess. It’s hard to know. Time sort of runs together in a place like that.”

“Right.” Gendry nods, considering. “Makes sense, really. They were pumping you two full of so much crap that Davos figures they knew what they were dealing with. Probably smart to keep you apart. Together you probably could’ve broken out years ago.”

This is the second time today he has been told things about his imprisonment that he only suspected, and it’s beginning to grate on him, though he doesn’t think Gendry or Arya had any malicious intent behind the slips. Still, he wonders why he has not been told these things by Davos himself.

His frustration shows, it seems, and what causes it must be obvious as well, judging by Gendry’s next words. “He wants to see you two tonight, after dinner. Davos,” he clarifies. “There’s a lot you don’t know, Jon, but I reckon he wanted to give you a day to see the place, make sure you understood that we really don’t mean you any harm, before he lays all that on you.” He clears his throat, shifting awkwardly on his heels, before he meets Jon’s eyes again. “It’s a lot to lay on a person, especially people who’ve been through what you and Dany have.”

Jon doesn’t want to speak about it anymore, he realizes, and he shifts his eyes to the clothes Gendry has handed him. “What are these for?”

Gendry is all to happy to change the subject, and Jon is more than a little relieved. He grins and points to a door to the left. “Locker room’s that way. Change into those, and meet me back here.”

He’s not fond of all the instructions he’s been given, and so he presses a bit further before he decides to agree. “Why?”

Gendry straightens, squinting slightly. “Did they teach you to fight in there?”

Jon shakes his head slowly. “No, of course not.”

“Well,” Gendry says, and gives him a friendly shove towards the door to the locker room, “today is an excellent day to start learning, then.”

\-----------

For the next three hours, he is a sponge, absorbing every single stance he is shown, every jab and punch, every kick and block, finding the physical exertion slowly relieves the anxious thrum of anxiety that has lingered within him since they arrived. He isn’t tired, exactly. But it’s good, a satisfying act, each smack of his closed fist against a practice dummy seeming to be an outlet, for his anger, and his hurt, and his frustration.

Gendry is full of ready praise, and it’s a new experience for Jon. Before now, he has simply existed, in the world of his books, in the escape of his mind, in the refuge of Dany’s. But this is real, and tangible, and by the time they are done he feels purged of a measure of resentment he hasn’t known he was hanging on to.

The pair are quiet, as they walk back to the manor, until at last Gendry comments, “Feel better?”

“Yes,” Jon says, and he means it. He feels better than he has in a long time, and he smiles as a throng of chattering children swarm past them, chuckling to himself when Gendry chides them to watch where they’re going. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Gendry replies easily. “So,” he drawls, glancing at Jon, “You’ll help me with Arya’s birthday, yeah?” Jon nods, but when Gendry’s smile takes a devious turn he begins to realize the corner he’s backed himself into, only confirmed when the other man continues. “So, you’ll stay?”

“For a little while,” Jon concedes with a sigh. “’Til we get our feet under us, at least.”

“You and Daenerys?” Jon nods, and Gendry is quiet for a bit, his mind clearly puzzling over something. “So, are you two a thing?” At Jon’s blank look he tries to clarify. “An item, a couple?”

Jon’s eyes dart around nervously. He doesn’t know, really. He wants to be around her, all the time. She’s the constant in his life. She’s like another part of him. He thinks it is the same for her. He hopes it is. “I’m not sure.” He huffs out a breath, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “It’s never really come up before now, if that makes sense. We’ve just always been together.”

“But I thought they kept you apart?”

Jon taps at his temple. “Up here.” He sees comprehension register, understands Gendry has a decent feel for what Jon is capable of. “That, and, well,” he glances down at his feet, wondering at how much more comfortable these new shoes are compared to the hard-soled ones he wore before, “we used to talk to each other, through the vents. Out loud, I mean.”

He realizes that it sounds absurd, as he says it, but if Gendry agrees he doesn’t show it. He just nods, as though he understands. It is quiet again, between them, as they pass through the large doors, Gendry leading the way, navigating the hallways. “So,” Gendry finally says, peeking back at Jon as he turns left and they start up the stairs, “you’ve never kissed her then?”

The question makes his gut tighten, makes his hands clench and unclench into fists at his sides, his fingers tingling strangely at the mere thought of it. “No,” he says shortly, and pointedly does not look at Gendry until they reach the landing.

He stopped by an arm ahead of him, for the second time that day. “It’s good you’ve come to me with this, grasshopper. I have so much to teach you.” Gendry sounds serious, but Jon’s beginning to be able to tell when he’s truly being solemn and when he is merely jesting. He could be sure, if he wishes, but he has the distinct impression that it might be frowned upon, to go poking about in another’s head.

At least without permission, he assumes.

So instead, he twists his head to the side, questioningly. “Grasshopper?”

Gendry’s eyes light up. “Yes, exactly. Alright, first things first, we need to expose you to some quality films, so that you’ll understand my references.” He stops dramatically before set of double doors, hand on the knob. “Let’s start with Kung Fu, you’re gonna love it!” Gendry’s excitement doesn’t waver, as he barges into the room, where both men find Arya and Dany sitting on one of the plush, overstuffed sofas, sniffling, their eyes watery and noses red.

As Jon watches, worry rising quickly at the sight of Daenerys in obvious distress, Gendry turns to him, his back to the others, and mouths ‘Watch this!’.

Arya is moving, while Gendry’s back is turned, fumbling with a black rectangle of plastic, hastily pushing the buttons littered on the top while Dany’s brows wrinkle in confusion. Then she resumes her prior position, adopting a look of cool disdain when Gendry turns around again.

“Well, well, well,” Gendry says drolly, “You ladies have had a fine afternoon, I hope!”

Daenerys nods emphatically, swiping a finger under her eye and giving Jon and Gendry a tremulous smile. “Oh, yes! Jon, you should see this, we were just watching the saddest movie I’ve ever seen.” She averts her eyes to Arya. “He’s never seen a movie before, Arya, can’t we watch it again?”

Gendry takes a massive step forward, craning his head to peer at the screen, where images are flashing across, though no sound can be heard. “Looks like ‘The Godfather’,” he says, snorting and regarding Arya with crossed arms. “So, you two were watching ‘The Godfather’? Interesting choice.”

Arya is glaring at Gendry, now, her face betraying nothing.

It is to Dany that his attention goes, instead. “Say, Dany, what did you find to be the saddest part about ‘The Godfather’?”

Dany’s eyes go wide, her eyes flying to the screen, first, then to Arya, and Jon sorts out what’s happening. And with Dany, of course, things are different. His mind is attuned to hers, he can feel her panic rising, as she and Arya stare at each other, trying to communicate without words. “Ah, well,” Dany stammers desperately, “the part the man becomes a father? It was very moving.” She’s lying, and poorly, and even Arya is beginning to break, her lips twitching uncontrollably. Dany leans over to hiss to Arya, but she isn’t as quiet as she should be, as Jon easily hears her and no doubt Gendry does as well. “What is a Godfather, exactly?”

In a flash, Gendry has grabbed for the black plastic, punching a button and then the images on the screen change. He crows with delight, holding the plastic high as Arya leaps from the couch and tries to grab it away. “Give it back!”

“Hallmark Channel! I knew it!’ He’s laughing merrily, locking eyes with Jon. “She’s really an insufferable romantic.” Arya growls menacingly in her throat, almost sounded more beast than girl, and she jumps high enough, finally, to take the plastic away. With another press of a button the screen goes black.

“I hate you so much.” She rolls her eyes when Gendry swings an arm around her shoulder, but she doesn’t push him away, just nudges nearer. Then, she punches him in the stomach, a swift jab that looks very much as though it would hurt someone who didn’t have steel under their skin, and Gendry laughs harder. “You’re such a shit, I swear.”

“Just admit that you are a massive softie on the inside, Arya. That’s all it will take.” Jon understands now what Gendry said earlier, because while Arya remains scowling her eyes are soft when she looks at Gendry. That’s where it is, he realizes, what she really feels, though she hides it behind fierce scowls and tense posture and swift punches to Gendry’s midsection.

“Never,” Arya spits, and slams down the black plastic. “But if that’s the way you want to play, you big hypocrite…,” she trails off, pulling away, regarding Jon and Dany with a wink.

“NO! Arya don’t do it, you know I hate that, please, don’t!”

Arya ignores his pleas, and then there are two Gendrys standing before them. The Gendry-that-was-Arya crosses his arms, and purses his lips, almost pouting. “My name is Gendry, and when no one’s around, I cry a children’s cartoon movies. Like a big, huge, dumb metal baby!’

Gendry’s face falls, and he staggers back. “That’s really hurtful, you know. And not even a good likeness.”

The Gendry-that-was-Arya frowns. “No, it’s a perfect likeness.”

The real Gendry just smirks and runs a hand across his jaw. “You’re right, I look really handsome, actually. Devastatingly so.”

In the blink of an eye Arya is standing there, rolling her eyes. “You’re so stupid.” She shoves Gendry’s shoulder, then wraps an arm around his waist and gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek. Jon cannot help but glance at Dany, who is watching them curiously, quiet throughout the whole ordeal. What would she do, he wonders, if he pressed his lips to her cheek, or her lips?

There is a yearning there, he thinks, as she looks on at the pair. Or, perhaps it’s just his own newfound longing, making him see things that he wishes to see.

Then her eyes are on his, her lovely amethyst eyes, and she looks away, her cheeks turning a bit pink.

Gendry calls out to him, as he tucks Arya further into his hold. “We’re still watching Kung Fu later, Jon. I swear, you’re gonna love it!” The pair disappear, Arya whispering something only Gendry can hear and laughing with him as they walk away together.

There is a quiet lull, as Jon sits gingerly beside Dany on the couch, but then she gives him a small grin. “I think I like them.”

This makes Jon happier than he expects, the air around him seeming to warm as he settles back against the cushions and considers her with a smile of his own. “Really?”

Dany sighs and settles back as well, leaning as she does so and causing her shoulder to rest against his. It is contact he craves, and he reaches for her hand, twining his fingers through hers as they look around the room, together. “It’s nice here. I’m still afraid, but,” she pauses, and he feels the hot pressure of her fingers as they dig into his hand, causing him to squeeze tighter, “Maybe that could pass, in time.”

“Maybe,” he whispers in agreement. His head inches to the side, to find hers just beside his, her eyes glued to his face.

“Show me what you did today, Jon,” she entreats him, and it’s the invitation he wishes for. He’s decided, now that they are free, that he shouldn’t intrude in her thoughts anymore. But she invites him in, so he closes his eyes, and lets her see, from the icing of the lake to sparring with Gendry.

She shifts, when he is done, and she is beaming at him when his eyes open again. “How wonderful,” she breathes.

“It was more than I meant to do,” he says sheepishly. “It’s stronger, here, whatever it is that’s inside me.”

Dany nods, but her eyes darken by several degrees, the corners of her mouth tipping downwards. “Yes,” she replies. “Harder to control. By the minute, it seems.” When she sighs again, he tugs her a little closer, so that they are pressed together, from thigh to hip to shoulder, and tips his head to rest against hers.

“Davos wants to see us, after dinner.” Her head moves against his, at his quiet words, as she nods.

“I know.” She ducks her head lower, suddenly, and just breathes, and he feels every exhalation against his neck. “We should go get ready.”

Then he feels it. The ghost of a touch, the barest brush of plump, full lips against his throat, and she is gone, pulling away. For a moment he wonders if he imagined it, but her face is such a stunning mixture of shocked and shy that he knows it was real.

“See you there,” she says, her voice thready and uneven, and she leaves.

He raises a hand to his neck, his palm over the spot where she kissed him, and smiles.

\----------

Davos sits before them, his face stern and set, his eyes full of melancholy.

Two folders are on his desk, one before Daenerys, and one before Jon.

He feels a tremor travel down his spine, as he looks at the creamy cover, and knows there is a strong possibility he doesn’t want to know what’s inside.

Davos pours himself a beverage, a dark liquid from a crystal decanter, then silently offers the same to Daenerys and Jon. They decline, neither able to look away from what has been placed before them.

“Gendry tells me you might like to stay awhile, Jon.” He looks from Jon, to Dany, swirling his drink and studying them in turn. “Arya says much the same about you, Daenerys. I would be glad of it, I can assure you. So I don’t want either of you to misunderstand my reasons for showing you what I’m about to. It’s just that you have a right to know, and should you choose to bid us farewell, you’ll need what’s inside.”

“What is it?” Dany’s voice trembles slightly, and Jon just barely fights to urge to reach out to her, in every way he can.

“You,” Davos says. “In those folders is every speck of information I’ve been able to find about the both of you. But I caution you, all I can give you is the truth. I cannot promise either of you that knowing what’s inside will leave you any better off than you are now. The truth can be kind and unkind, in turn. It can heal, and it can wound. You don’t have to open them, if you don’t want to. You can wait. You can toss it in the fireplace now, if you want.”

She is stronger, when she replies. “I want to know.”

“Yes,” Davos sighs. I suspected you might. “But before you do, there is one other thing you ought to understand, to fully comprehend the magnitude of what has been done to you. People like us, people who can do the things we can do,” he waves his hand between all of them, “sometimes this is simply happenstance. Sometimes, it is not. More often than not, it is genetic. A trait, a mutation, passed down from parent to child.”

That makes sense, Jon reckons. Something inherited, something in the blood, and he peeks at Dany to find her narrowing her eyes at Davos.

He presses on, though Jon doubts he is oblivious to Dany’s scrutiny. “In Westeros, there are some families where these gifts are prevalent. Arya, for example, comes from such a family.”

“The Starks,” Jon whispers. His eyes fly up to meet Davos’s. “This morning, she said she was one of the last.”

Davos is silent for an uncomfortably long time, but finally, his chin dips in assent. He takes a healthy sip of his drink, then places it on his desk, an air of resignation settling around him. “She is,” the old man replies. “She is one, and you are the other.”

He is numb, he thinks, a man of ice, and only the feel of Dany’s palm, blazing with heat atop his, shows him that he is losing control, ice traveling and casing his hands in a thick sheet, cracking down the arms of the chair. “Jon,” Dany whispers, and he clings to it, the familiarity of it, the warmth of her, as he feels himself at the edge of an abyss of blackness. She shakes her head, and a melting begins, both her hands cupping his skin, thawing his ice as water drips down onto the fine rug beneath their chairs.

“Your mother, and Arya’s father were siblings, Jon. She is your cousin, by blood.” Davos speaks carefully, and Jon can feel the careful nudge against his mind. He is no animal, though. He will not lose control. He breathes, counts backwards in his mind, and focuses on the silver-blond woman beside him, as she holds his eyes with hers.

“That’s it,” Dany says softly. “It’s alright, Jon.”

Davos reaches, opens the folder, and Jon sees line after line of text, official looking forms, and finally, a picture.

He knows the face he sees. He has seen it, in his dreams, in his nightmares. Tears form, only to freeze in their tracks down his cheeks. Not many. Just a scattering, but enough.

Davos taps a finger near the woman in the photo. Dark hair, gray eyes, long face. He can see the resemblance. He understands.

“My mother,” Jon whispers, and finally he looks up, sees the grief in Davos’s eyes.

“A fine woman,” the other man gruffs. “Wild, and willful, and dead before her time.” His voice is thick, an anger building that Jon finds incongruous with Davos’s kind features. “Your father, Arthur,” he explains, pointing to the man standing near his mother’s shoulder. Davos heaves a heavy sigh, tongue clucking, but Jon is stuck in a moment prior, at the man’s admission that his mother is gone. He assumes the same goes for his father.

Jon has spent years wondering, wishing, waiting for the day that perhaps he would find the family he thought he must have had, once, long ago. In an instant, that hope is gone, and he feels hollow, as though his heart has been carved from his chest.

“They are gone,” he says, but he does not bother to ask if it is so, merely states it. Another glance at Davos merely confirms it, and the old man hangs his head for a moment, seeming to gather himself. He’s never wished more to plumb the depths of another’s mind, but he refrains. In his misery, in the anger that has begun to build in his chest, an anger born of the death of his most secret wishes, he knows he might hurt the man.

“I’m sorry,” Davos says, and it is a small, cold comfort that he means it. He reaches a trembling hand to the other folder, opens it, and pushes it towards Dany. It is the distraction he needs, Jon realizes, watching her face twist in dismay, the way she tries to avert her eyes. “I’m sorry to both of you.”

If his grief is an icy fist, hers is a blaze of heat that buffets him, an orange glow rising in her fists as she whimpers. “Just tell me,” she says, and steadfastly stares at Davos, her eyes focused steadily on his, refusing to look down.

“Your mother, Rhaella and your father, Aerys,” Davos replies, and taps a large photo of a man and woman of uncommon beauty, unmistakably sharing her blood, smiling. “Your parents.” When his voice breaks, Jon tears his gaze away from Dany, seeing the way the other man’s face has twisted in his own, private misery. “My friends,” Davos chokes out, “long ago. Gone.”

He steeples his hands, fingers brushing against his lips as Dany peers down, sees the faces of her parents, and begins to cry.

“So much suffering, and now I bring you both more.” Davos stands abruptly, paces to the wide picture windows, and Jon can take no more. Dany’s growing pain has eclipsed his own, at least for now, and he stands as well, only to kneel beside her chair and embrace her, letting her tears wet his shoulder as he watches the older man’s progress.

“Why have you brought us here? Really?”

At Jon’s terse question, Davos turns. When his silence persists, Jon begins to push, only to be met with an impenetrable force he cannot cross, his mind meeting such resistance that he pulls back.

**_Do not do that._ **

Jon glares, mulishly, jaw jutting out as he smooths a hand up Dany’s back.

_Then answer me._

Taking a breath, Davos returns to his desk, standing and bracing his hands on the surface, suddenly seeming exhausted. “Because I had to. I could not let you suffer. I could not let them continue to use you both. I have my motives, as everyone does, that’s true.” With a huff, he frowns, his eyes never leaving Jon’s. “But here is a truth that is undeniable: I owed it to them, to set you free.” He nods towards the pictures. “What happens from here is up to you.”

Dany sniffs, but her tears are drawing when she pushes away from Jon. “You want something from us, don’t you?”

His jaw set, Davos nods. “Aye, I do. Your help.”

There it is, Jon thinks. He has wondered, and now he knows. He shifts back to his seat, but takes Dany’s hand. It is the only thing that anchors him, he suspects, the only real things there is in the madness his life has become.

“What will you do?” He knows how cynical he sounds, but he cannot bring himself to care. “Are we to be your weapons now?” Jon’s lip are a hard, tense line as he studies Davos with new skepticism. “You will use us to fight your battles?” He lets out a mirthless laugh, as Davos tips his head to the side.

“You’re angry,” Davos remarks flatly, and Jon realizes that he does not merely speak to him. He looks askance to find Dany regarding the man with a hard, heavy stare. “Good. So am I.” He sucks on his teeth, glaring at the open files on his desk. “All this death, all this loss. It has to stop. And we can stop it, together.”

Dany looks at him, then, and he knows the questions that haunt her mind, can hear them as clearly as if she’s spoken them aloud. Perhaps Davos Seaworth can close his mind, but Dany’s remains a haven for him, the ease of the connection as palpable as her hand in his.

“How?” He asks for both of them, and Davos sits, leaning against his seatback, taking up his drink and sipping.

“By helping me find the others, like you. Helping me free them. Then,” Davos says, staring into his drink, “helping me end this once and for all. They wanted you, you understand? Both of you. For decades, they have kidnapped our kind, stolen us away, experimented, tried to use us to their own ends. But people like us are too strong, past a certain age. It never worked, not as they wished. They needed children, young children, too young to remember the lives they had before. So they removed your parents from the board. What better way to forge a weapon, than to steal it when it is young, to forge it yourself?”

Jon thinks he will be sick. He can feel the bile rising in his throat, the crushing weight of guilt that slams down upon him like a great and mighty fist, forcing him into himself. His eyes rest on the photograph of his mother, his father, laughing together, an imaginary wind stirring their hair as they gaze at each other.

_Because of me._

_Because of what I am._

For whatever strength runs through his blood, in that moment he feels fragile and breakable as glass.

Then her hand is on his, burning like a brand into his skin, and it does not eliminate misery that has begun to take his mind, and his heart.

But when their eyes meet, he knows that this pain that consumes him is not his alone. It is hers, as well, another thread that binds them together.

And for now, it is enough.

“No,” she whispers. “Not because of you. And not because of me.”

This truth seems to stretch him to breaking, but in Dany, though he feels the rage that stirs her blood like fire, something else emerges.

She is strong, in that moment, like iron. Her jaw is set, and ever so slowly, she turns to look at Davos.

“We will help you.” From the corner of Jon’s eye he sees the older man almost sag in relief. “We’ll help you save the rest of them. But ask no more of us than that. Not yet.”

There is a ribbon of steel in her voice, so sharp and keen Jon believes he can see it. For so long he has tried to be strong for her, for all those years of forced captivity. So many times, when he could not bear the sound of her tears, and he would create that world within his mind, where nothing could hurt them, where they were free.

But now, she is his anchor, she is all he has left to cling to. And so he does, clutching her hand tight, even as Davos straightens.

He does not need to pry into her thoughts to know that this is, perhaps, what she needs, what she’s always needed. What Davos offers them is a purpose, no matter how short the duration might be, and above all else, Daenerys has always felt lost. Her focus narrows past the mundane realities they face, in adjusting to this new world they’ve found themselves in, and settles on the task that has been set before them.

“Aye, I reckon that’s enough to ask. And,” the old man continues, pushing up from his desk, “I suspect that’s enough for one night.” He closes each manila folder, pushes them gently to the edge of his lacquered desk. “These are for you. Go on, get some rest, eh? We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

Numbly, Jon stands, palming the folder, fighting the very real urge to toss it into the flames that dance in Davos’s hearth.

Dany doesn’t falter, and takes the lead, though neither say a word.

She doesn’t need to.

If there is anything Jon has learned, in his limited and stunted life, it is that pain shared is pain lessened, and each step he takes, each breath he draws as they silently walk back to their quarters he can feel his fury dimming.

He is angry, still. He wants to weep. He wants to break something, crush something to dust beneath his hands. He wants to coat the world in an ice so cold it burns.

Daenerys threads her arm around his waist, gently, and tucks into his side.

“It’s okay, Jon.” He can hear the way her voice quivers, but she pushes nearer anyway. So he drops his arm around her shoulder and cups the curve with his palm.

They walk, through the maze of hallways and steep staircases, but draw to a halt when they reach the pair of doors that belong to them, and find they are not alone.

Gendry and Arya are waiting, and there is none of the playfulness, none of the teasing Jon saw in earlier in the day now. Only grief, and understanding.

“I’m so sorry, Jon.” Arya’s hands twitch, and her feet dance a bit, at she lets out a husky whisper. “I’m so sorry.” He realizes she is fighting the urge to embrace him, remembers that she is his cousin, by blood, perhaps the only living family that remains to him.

But he is not ready, yet. The flood of emotions that swirl inside him are only barely sealed off, and he does not know if he can bring himself to allow such familiarity yet. She is family, but still, a stranger.

He nods, barely.

Gendry watches, and slips his hand into Arya’s, somehow understanding what wars within Jon. “We aren’t going anywhere, if you feel like talking. Both of you. Just, whenever you want.” His blue eyes seem to glow in the dim hallway, and Jon wonders what else he is capable of, beneath his easy smiles and impenetrable skin. “We’ll be around.” He whispers something to Arya, who swallows and lets out a shaky breath.

Together, the pair begin to leave, but Arya turns on her heel, gray eyes finding Jon’s one last time. “I knew it, the minute I saw you in the woods, you know. Knew it was true, about who you are.” Her lips whiten and tighten, and her chin trembles. “You look so much like my father.”

Gendry sweeps her away, as a quiet sob steals whatever else Arya meant to say, leaving Jon and Dany alone.

Dany moves first, her hand turning the doorknob to her chambers, her other hand still gripping Jon’s with strength.

“C’mon,” she whispers, entreating, pleading, consoling. “Stay with me tonight. I don’t want to be alone.” As though she knows he is about to protest, she tips her head, hair streaming silver down her shoulder, living moonlight. “Do you?”

He doesn’t. Not now. Not ever. Not if he has the choice to be with her.

He follows, and lets her take the sum total of his life from his hand, placing their truths together atop a small table. She leads him to her bed, large enough for them to climb upon with room to spare, and together they fit their bodies against each other, heads on soft pillows, limbs entwined. He is lower than her, his head upon her arm, resting on her shoulder, and he closes he eyes as her fingers begin to card through his hair.

“Sleep, Jon,” she says, kissing his temple softly then settling down as well. “And make us a lovely dream tonight. We’ll worry about the rest tomorrow.” She sniffles, and he feels the hot drop of a tear as it slides down her cheek and onto his forehead. This, he realizes, as sleep begins to claim him, is his home, his purpose. Just her. He will make her a million dreams, if she wishes.

And so, he does, and they do not stir again until the sun returns.


End file.
